


The Blunder is in Estimate

by middlemarch



Series: Plum dimension [12]
Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Biblical References, Engagement, F/M, Fluff, Theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9850085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: She hadn't hesitated to reply. Perhaps she should have.





	

“Henry, I’m afraid I won’t make a very good minister’s wife,” Emma confided. The worry had nagged at her during their odd, unpredictable courtship that had lacked the familiar loveliness of roses and moonlight and had had to make due with the uncompromising beauty of integrity, Henry’s approval when she assisted Dr. Foster, water for thirst, the trust in raising their voices together in a hymn. Now, it had concluded; he had asked and she had answered, neither shy, both trembling, and they shared the view of the back garden with no one except Nurse Mary’s stray calico sidling through the flower beds, favoring the irises.

“Why?” Henry replied. She was glad he had not dismissed her. She wondered that he hadn’t chosen an endearment to soften the question. Would she be sweetheart or dear, honey or angel or puss? Was there some Yankee term she’d have to become accustomed to? Perhaps she could write to Mary to tell her of her engagement and inquire; her friend would smile before she replied, but she would tell the truth.

“I don’t think, that is, my family are regular church-goers, I wouldn’t want you to think we’re not, but I don’t think I know the Bible very well. I haven’t many Psalms by heart and…I often found our minister, Mr. Townsend, well, rather dull and my mind would wander during his sermons. And he never answered my questions, just tut-tutted at me so I know they were not fitting,” Emma explained. Her father had allowed her his library but he hadn’t wasted time discussing what she read and her mother had made it clear Emma’s uncertainty was not befitting a Green woman; even Belinda had said time and prayer should be her teachers, nothing else would do.

“I think, Emma, I think you’ll make the perfect wife for a minister. For this minister. For I don’t require you to have Psalms or Proverbs or Matthew, Luke and John memorized, only to love God’s word and I want you to tell me when my sermons ramble on or seem like nothing but foolishness. And your questions couldn’t have been wrong—what’s wrong is to be capable of questions and not to ask them,” Henry said, holding her even more closely, his voice soft against her ear as his hand was at her waist.

“Truly?” she said doubtfully and felt him laugh against her.

“Oh love, we’ve already left Eden. Shall I tell you, I have been afraid as well,” he said companionably.

“What are you afraid of?” she replied, enjoying being _love_ , although she would not write Mary to tell her so, nor admit it to anyone but Henry.

“That I shan’t make a very good husband for Miss Green. She is a lady, gently reared, well-read and smart as a whip, far too good for the likes of me. I’m afraid she’ll come to her senses and see what a poor bargain she’s made.” She heard that he meant it, beneath the compliments and the teasing, that he felt he was unworthy of her, too poor, too plain, a litany of inadequacy that she could hardly believe.

“You’re not a bargain, Henry, poor or otherwise. You’re a blessing, I know that much and I suppose that’s all I need to know,” she said staunchly and she felt his lips at her temple, his broad chest against her shoulders, the shape of him behind her a comfort and a longing.

“And you were worried about being a minister’s wife! I think, if you want to be taught, you should begin with Proverbs 31, ‘Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies,’ and I’ll answer any question you ask me,” he said.

“Any question?” she said. She let him hear what she meant in the husky tone of her voice, the way she arched her neck against his rough cheek.

“Every question, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> More fluff but less overtly sugary than my last, to bring a little light to the darkness that is Emmry right now. The title is from Emily Dickinson. I'm clearly partial to the Old Testament. If I had to guess, I'd say Henry Hopkins would *say* he liked Luke the best, but his actual favorite would be Mark. I freely admit this isn't my best work, but the background of Caillou episodes was not the most conducive...


End file.
